


The bargain store is open

by silvervelour



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, early 2000’s au, features dumb loveable gay man brian firkus, katya has a yard sale, trans katya!, trixie’s on a mini vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 09:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15116801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvervelour/pseuds/silvervelour
Summary: Trixie visits her sister for three days in the scorching summer of two-thousand-and-two.She arrives on a Thursday, sometime between noon and dusk, pulls up in her two year old silver Audi station wagon, parks in the driveway of her sisters suburban detached house in the middle of Narberth, Pennsylvania.Her hair is frizzing, tendrils sticking to her sweaty face and curling at the ends, the above eighty degree weather doing little to help combat the natural textures of her strands. She knows that her mascara’s smudged, is becoming increasingly aware of her chipping nail varnish that’s been on her fingertips for over a week when she taps them insistently on the locked steering wheel, until she looks up at the attention seeking house.





	The bargain store is open

**Author's Note:**

> this is brought to you by my love for the dumb era that was the early 2000’s and our questionable fashion choices, my hatred towards certain fics that do nothing but fetishise trans folks, and my want to write something like this for the end of pride month! 
> 
> it’s been brewing for a while, and i think it’s my favourite thing that i’ve ever written. it’s just a one shot, but i hope you like it!! feel free to know what you think by leaving me a comment or talking to me over on tumblr! <3

Trixie visits her sister for three days in the scorching summer of two-thousand-and-two. 

She arrives on a Thursday, sometime between noon and dusk, pulls up in her two year old silver _Audi_ station wagon, parks in the driveway of her sisters suburban detached house in the middle of Narberth, Pennsylvania.

Her hair is frizzing, tendrils sticking to her sweaty face and curling at the ends, the above eighty degree weather doing little to help combat the natural textures of her strands. She knows that her mascara’s smudged, is becoming increasingly aware of her chipping nail varnish that’s been on her fingertips for over a week when she taps them insistently on the locked steering wheel, until she looks up at the attention seeking house.

It’s everything Trixie expected it would be. The house itself is grand, fits in to the neighbourhood that’s quaint yet built up, surrounded by walls of foliage that keep the community secluded and peaceful. It has a porch that’s white, steps leading up to the door that compliments the walls that are a burnt, rusting red, an American flag dangling from the rafters. The widows are equally as impressive; Trixie can spot eight alone from where she’s still perched in the drivers seat of her car, willing herself to trudge up the pathway to the house, knock on the brass door knocker.

They’ve barely spoken in months - Trixie and her sister, _Joellen_ \- not since her wedding where Trixie had watched from the sidelines, stood clothed in a frilly bridesmaids dress that had left her itching whilst she kept an observant eye on her sisters three children. They’re all under the age of ten, _Rose, Lilly_ and _Daisy_ , and Trixie tells herself that she’s excited to see them again even if she isn’t, is dreading the thought of them plastering their sticky hands across her bootcut jeans that she’s worked hard to smooth over with the iron.

Trixie can see them peaking through the curtains in the windows already, grins covering their freckled faces that soon disappear when Joellen draws them away, convinces them that they’ll fall through the glass; Trixie knows her sister too well, doesn’t doubt that she had bribed them with popsicles or ice cream.

Glancing towards the front yard, Trixie notices that the grass and the hedges are nothing short of well kept, all trimmed to perfection and sprinkled with seeds to make them grow, flourish. It reminds her to take care of her own garden, momentarily, back home in New York, despite it being nothing more than three window boxes of flowers that are situated on her balcony. 

It makes Trixie chuckle. She doesn’t know when her family had begun to scatter themselves across the country, caused herself and Joellen to live a state apart, lead lives that differ as greatly as they do. Trixie’s older than Joellen by a whole three years, yet hasn’t succeeded in plotting the future for herself that Joellen has. It doesn’t matter much to her; she tells herself constantly that not everybody functions on the same timeline.

Trixie’s twenty eight, lives in a studio apartment, alone in New York when she works as an editor for a women’s magazine. She’s the contrast to Joellen who’s twenty five, married to her wealthy high school boyfriend and acts as a devoted mother to three excitable girls. Trixie doesn’t believe they could be more dissimilar if they tried, but it seems irrelevant when Joellen’s opening the front door to her home, stepping out to the front porch with two out of three of her children latched onto her legs, ready to greet Trixie who’s hopping out of her car.

She leaves her bags, or bag, singular, in the trunk,neglects grabbing the handbag that’s packed with a meagre two extra camisoles and low rise skirts in lieu of popping her gum, sauntering up the path and the three or four, maybe it’s five concrete steps up to where Joellen remains stood. She beams at Trixie, reflects like the sun in the tinted glasses that Trixie’s got perched on the top of her head, keeping her wispy layers of hair away from her face.

Her teeth are on full display - Trixie can tell that she’s payed to have work done over the last year or so - and she’s quick to lick her tongue across them, pull Daisy and Lilly up off of the ground to stand each side of her. Trixie watches them elatedly, brushes out the non existent creases in the silk of her camisole, and crouches down so that she’s closer to their height. Her knees begrudge the movement, but she’s waving manically, allowing both of the girls to wrap their arms around parts of her body, weave their fingers into her already knotted hair. 

“Aunt Trixie!”. It’s Daisy who greets her first.

Lilly is silent for the most part, only raises her voice when Trixie pulls away from the struggled embrace, takes both of their hands in one of her. She squeezes them gently, smiles encouragingly when Lily, the undisputed quieter one of the two, opens her mouth only to close it once more.

Trixie casts her gaze over their outfits briefly. They’re both wearing matching co-ords; Lilly is drowning in a flowing skirt and short sleeved shirt that’s made out of Lilly patterned fabric, as is Daisy, only hers are adorned with Daisies, predictably. Trixie already knows without seeing her than Rose will be wearing one that suits her given name, too, true to Joellen’s persistent need for coordination.

It borderlines on being corny, too fitting, but Trixie knows that her sisters going to milk the floral theme for all it’s worth, until her children grow enough common sense to fight against the questionable fashion choices. Rose, Lilly and Daisy are a mere eight, six and five years old respectively, but Trixie has enough belief in them, knows that they share her blood too, and trusts that they’ll be wearing dungarees and slogan tees by the time that they reach their teenage years.

Trixie looks forward to it.

“Hey you guys!-“. Trixie coos.

“-Missed me? Did ‘ya? Miss your aunt Trix?”. She continues, tickles both girls sides with the tips of her fingers.

It causes them to squeal, cackle and laugh, double over as their eyes scrunch up in delight, fall against Trixie’s knees that are still bent. Trixie ensures that she catches them, braces them both in her arms as they show off their gap-toothed smiles, their finger paint covered faces illuminated by the sun that’s still shining high in the sky, peaking through the darkening clouds.

The watch on Trixie’s wrist tells her that it’s approaching six o’clock in the evening, and the weather forecast on her car radio had predicted rain by seven. It’s not surprising; the weathers been too kind for too long, had left them in a drought, has killed off lawns across the east coast and delicate plants across the country.

Trixie doesn’t care. She enjoys the rain, welcomes the overcast sky and slightly milder temperatures that won’t have her sweating from the moment she rises in the mornings to the instant she falls asleep at night. She wishes she was built for the summer, but accepts that it isn’t the case when she catches sight of herself in the glass of her sisters front door when she stands, all thick blonde hair, bootcut jeans and heavy breasts straining against her silk camisole.

“They all missed you-“. Joellen adds to the conversation.

She rests her hands on Trixie’s sunburnt shoulders, and Trixie hisses in discomfort. She’d spent the day prior at the park closest to her apartment building, sprawled out on a beach towel next to her co-worker and friend Shea, who’d filled Trixie’s ears with anecdotes of her new crush. _Sasha_ , Trixie recalls. 

“-Even I missed you, you city convert”. She finishes.

Joellen’s voice is soft, reassuring - Trixie thinks that she’d be convinced if it wasn’t for the numerous phone calls that Joellen had neglected to answer - and she’s ushering Trixie into the house seconds later, forcing her to kick off her shoes and drop her bag by the door, before she’s being sent into the adjacent living room.

The walls are coloured a pale duck egg that verges on being teal, and are packed to the brim with collages of family photos, mainly consisting of Joellen and her husband, the children and their school friends. Trixie’s able to spot one of herself, along with the other three bridesmaids that had been present at Joellen’s wedding, tucked away in the corner above the mantle of the wooden fireplace.

High ceilings tower above her, spinning fans whirring against them. They blow Trixie’s hair out of the secure band of her sunglasses and down onto her face, into her eyes. It’s irritating; her eyelids are getting oily from the humid temperatures, as is her forehead, her t-zone in general, and the soft strands begin to stick to her generously blushed cheeks.

She swipes them away half heartedly, sits herself down in a brown leather armchair that faces the bulky television directly. There are re-runs of cartoons playing, ones that Trixie recalls from her own childhood that she spent with her mother and father, Joellen and their younger brother Ryan.

It warms her heart, draws her out of the feeling of the creaking floorboards against the soles of her feet, the air conditioned breeze that’s being circulated around the room by a plug in vent in the corner of the attached dining room. Trixie allows herself to be engulfed by the love of her nieces, the welcoming nature of Joellen, doesn’t dwell on the wave of exhaustion that crashes over her body until Joellen points to the staircase in the hallway a little over half an hour later.

“Let me show you the guest room”.

*****

There are three guest rooms, and Trixie gets the largest one.

It feels too big for just her and her one bag that she’s since retrieved from the trunk of her car, the small stack of DVD’s that Joellen’s given her to play on the portable player that’s stuffed in one of the compartments of said bag. She feels like she’s drowning, in the cerulean blue walls that coordinate with the remainder of the house; it’s decorated like the American flag that’s hung on the porch, in reds and whites and blues.

Trixie longs for the colours to vanish, though knows that they’re not going to when she recognises that Joellen and her husband are as patriotic as they come with a huff and a sigh.

She throws herself back onto the springing mattress of the spacious king sized bed, frowns at the knowledge that her sister has somehow become a staunch republican - Trixie muses to herself that it’s the suburbs fault - and is open about her intentions to vote once more for _Bush_ in the next presidential election that will be hurrying around the corner in a little under two years.

It’s not how they were raised, not how Trixie’s chosen to cast her vote, either, with her democratic leaning ideologies and beliefs that wander into the cracks in the floorboards that are painted white beneath the bed frame. 

Trixie focuses her attention on the ceiling once more, makes note of the fact that they’re higher than the ones in the hallway downstairs, the living room and the dining room. She’s still yet to be acquainted with the kitchen, though knows that the case will be the same, doesn’t doubt that the bay windows of her guest room climb higher than the on ones the floor below.

The view from aforementioned window is a pleasant one, Trixie thinks, and hums approvingly to herself as she gazes out of it from where her heads still propped up on be jumble of pillows, throw cushions that have been hand embroidered with quotes that Trixie doesn’t care for; _home is where the heart is, this house is blessed with love and laughter._

Trees sway in the plentiful breeze, tap against the glass of the window pane with each movement, every sweep of Trixie’s vision that’s growing hazy with tiredness. She peers at the digital screen of her watch, pixelated numbers that tell her it’s barely reached eight o’clock, and Trixie knows that she can’t fall asleep yet.

She doesn’t want to fall asleep.

The weather outside has remained bright, sunny and easily definable as the height of summer, a fully bloomed August day despite the forecast that had warned her of rain, heavy clouds. The cautions had proven to be a waste, Trixie decides, rolls her eyes at the abstract art hung on the wall above her head when she spots the still clear sky. 

Blues and pinks and oranges form the beginning of a sunset that Trixie welcomes gratefully. It’s been a long day, draining to the extent that she feels like a shell of herself, and wonders if she’d lost both her mind and her perseverance somewhere along the three hour drive between New York and Pennsylvania.

Trixie sits up.

The sun is glowing brighter than it should be for ten minutes past eight in the evening - Trixie’s forced to squint against the rays that bounce off of the stand alone mirror in the corner of the room - and she makes quick work of detangling her sunglasses from her masses of unruly hair, pulls them down to cover her eyes.

It provides her with instant relief, leaves her blinking green and pink and yellow splotches. She can feel the sunglasses slipping against the oil on her nose from where it’s seeped through her minimal powder makeup since she’d applied it the morning prior, and scrunches up the bridge of her nose in a futile attempt to keep them from sliding further.

Trixie doesn’t harp on her appearance much, with the exception of the few nights a month she ventures out on the town with her work colleagues - it happens once in a blue moon - and thinks that it’s evident in the way that she steps into her flip flops that she’d kicked off at the end of her guest bed, pulls on a zip up sweatshirt that belongs to Joellen, presumably.

It’s tighter around her mid section than she’d like it to be, even more snug around her breasts that heave against the nylon or polyester fabric. It’s a size or two too small; Joellen has always been built like an athlete compared to Trixie, who doesn’t care for the yoga that she partakes in or the Pilates classes she attends on a twice weekly basis.

Trixie’s content in her larger frame, her curves, her mountains and valleys that she knows men and women adore, would kill to get their hands and mouths and eyes on. She loves them more now than she ever has, the swell of her hips shaped into soft plains by the denim of her bootcut jeans. They flare out at the ankles, but are skin tight around her thighs, and Trixie knows that they’re not deemed to be the most flattering but finds herself rolling her eyes exasperatedly at the notion when she spins once in the mirror, pops her hip.

She looks well, more put together than she knows somebody who’s had the day that she has should, and chews down knowingly on the piece of gum that’s been lodged between her teeth since the halfway point of her journey, a truck stop just out of New York State. The eyes of the burly men on her there had made her blush, furiously, but she gets it now, understands their rampant desire for her, hopes that she’ll be able to catch the attention of a suburban parent on the evening walk that she plans on taking.

The thought is admittedly laughable.

Her legs carry her out of the room and down the wooden staircase to the hallway. It’s darker than it was an hour ago, now that Joellen and the reminder of the family have vanished, left to journey to a land of slumber - Trixie curses them for being early risers - and she narrows her eyes instinctively.

There’s a spare key that takes centre place on the dresser that’s closer towards the front door at the end of the hallway, and Trixie takes it with damp hands, unlocks and then locks the door tentatively behind her. She’s cautious of the screech that the hinges pierce her ears with, the click that the handle makes, and prays to the small chapel that she can see at the end of the road that she didn’t wake Joellen or her husband, any of the three girls.

She places the key in the back pocket of her jeans, doesn’t consider slotting it beneath one of the many decorative plant pots that sit on the porch when she knows that she’s going to be returning within the hour; the neighbourhood is pint sized and she thinks that she’ll be able to lap it twice within that time, even if she walks at snails pace for the entire duration.

Trotting down the steps from the porch with a sigh, Trixie takes a right at the end of the driveway. The cobbled sidewalks are uneven against the foam soles of her flip flops, and she can feel the bottoms of her bootcuts catching against raised edges sporadically. It’s less than convenient, borderlines on being aggravating, but then she’s stepping onto the road, walking along the smooth tarmac that’s void of any moving vehicles at a time which Trixie considers to be prime.

There’s music playing somewhere in the distance, faint early _80’s_ soul anthems that Trixie’s able to quote word for word, sing down to each fine tuned note. It’s soft, welcoming - it’s the most at ease Trixie’s felt since she crossed the state border - and she allows her mind to wander, focus on the melody and the sweet smell of summer that fills the air.

Remnants of a barbecue are prominent, as is the whiffs of freshly cut grass. She can see the occasional trimming blustering through the breeze if she looks closely enough, scrutinises them past the continually warming light, the dusky sky that’s more lavender and marigold than it was when Trixie had been looking out through the family tinted windows.

She’s been walking for what she assumes is ten or so minutes, is alerted that it’s been more than twenty when she lifts her wrist, hones in on the screen of her watch. it’s nine thirty-seven, and Trixie’s baffled perplexed as to how she’s ended up in the opposite side of the suburb that’s more than a mile away from her sisters house, where the houses are on the smaller side, quainter than the extravagance that she’s unable to comprehend.

Most of the houses are painted in similar colours, ones that she could have predicted - dark reds, blues, neutrals - and the majority of them are detached from one and other. It makes for a homely exterior, more so than numerous streets in the surrounding area, and Trixie finds herself smiling blissfully, wrapping herself in cotton clouds and lemon sun drops.

The air is still noticeably smokey, and Trixie’s eyes glaze over with the burn that it draws to the surface of them, tears gathering in the corners that cause her vision to blur. She seeks to blink it away, stops her crawling steps in front of an empty front yard. The lawn is half way to being fully mowed, a mower having been discarded on the gravelled driveway.

It’s still plugged in - Trixie can see the cord entering through the side door of the house - and she’d presume that the house belonged to a middle aged or older couple if it wasn’t for the woman that steps out moments later, her face startled at the sight of Trixie standing at the end of her yard.

She can’t be more than Trixie’s height, Trixie notes, even in her platform sneakers that increase her stance by an inch or so. Her hair is blonde - darker than Trixie’s, yet still blonde - and Trixie knows that it’s natural immediately, unable to spot a millimetre of a root in sight. The strands are silk threads, some golden and some cigarette ash that’s still burning into embers, and they’re cut into a style that’s reminiscent of _The Rachel_ ; if Rachel ever had baby bangs.

Her eyebrows are harsh beneath the blunt cut of them, and Trixie watches them furrow as she places a glass of water down onto the windowsill at her side, turns to face Trixie. She takes a step closer, and then another so that Trixie’s able to make out that her eyes are as green as the exterior walls of her home, before she’s breaking out into a soft smile. 

Trixie’s eyes trail across her body. She’s wearing a flowing skirt that resembles what Rose, Daisy and Lilly had been wearing, one that hangs low on her hips and consists of see-through mesh from her knees to the ankles. The pattern itself is miscellaneous, Trixie knows, floral elements ranging from rhododendrons to thistle, rosemary and acorns. She has it paired with a white halter neck shirt, tied at the back with wooden beads that fall to her collarbones, the slight protrusions of her breasts beneath them.

Her makeup is minimal but matches the colours in her long circle skirt, blue shimmering eyeshadow and coral blushed cheeks that stand out against the pale nude of her lipstick. She looks of the time, yet from an era that Trixie’s unable to pinpoint, and she’s ripping her eyes away from the woman’s navel piercing, sparkling with silver jewellery in order to reciprocate the unwavering eye contact.

The woman clears her throat.

“Are you lost?”. She questions.

Her voice is teasing, mocking Trixie with ease. It’s unfair - Trixie had a retort that’s now lost in her throat about disturbing the neighbours by mowing the grass past six in the evening - and she’s blinking dumbly in response, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders in an attempt to remain nonchalant.

“What?-“. Trixie gapes.

“- _No,_ not lost”. She chokes.

The woman arches an eyebrow, a droplet of sweat trickling out from beneath her bangs, and motions vaguely towards Trixie. She does so with a bony hand, her wrist flexing at the end of her toned arms - Trixie doesn’t pretend that she isn’t staring unabashedly - and twirls her fingertips in the air. Her fingernails are painted an aqua blue, marine and sea-like, and Trixie prefers it on the hands of the woman, doesn’t wish to ever have to see it again on the walls of Joellen’s house.

“You’re not from here, though”. She points out.

“How’d you figure that one out?”. Trixie’s in disbelief.

Shaking her head, the woman chuckles. Her eyes are telling Trixie that it’s obvious, that Trixie looks like a fish out of water, a splash of neon in a sea of muted mauves, but her grin remains teasing. She licks her tongue across her top lip, kisses at her teeth when Trixie plasters her face in a pout, crosses her arms over her chest. The action pushes her breasts up towards her chin - it’s an exaggeration, Trixie’s unbothered - yet the woman’s pupils refuse to deter.

“Juicy sweater, those jeans, Dolce sunglasses, _need_ I go on?”. She finishes.

Trixie thinks that she has a point; she doesn’t think she’d be able to find a current brand within a ten mile radius, not like she can in New York where there’s a string of stores a stones throw from her apartment. It’s a different demographic, one that Trixie tells herself she shouldn’t be as opposed to, but the woman’s turning around to pick up her freshly filled glass of water from the windowsill, is lifting it to her mouth.

Droplets of it drip down her chin, onto the fabric of her halter shirt in dribbles that Trixie envies. She doesn’t know the woman, but knows that she’s attractive - Trixie often allows the pull of her intuition to guide her - and hopes that she gets the chance to tell her, with their lips conjoined or with her head between her legs.

Trixie has half a mind to push her down onto the lawn with the smirk that refuses to vanish on the woman’s face, wishes she could give the neighbours an eye full of everything they’ve never dared experience; she tells herself she’d do so if the woman wasn’t already ushering to make conversation.

“You’re visiting, then? Family?”. She seems intrigued.

“My sister and her kids, I live up in New York”. Trixie answers, receives a nod in response.

There’s a pause in the conversation, one that only lasts for a handful of seconds before the woman’s filling it once again, spouting out her name for Trixie to hear, take in and absorb. The woman outstretches her hand for Trixie to grasp ahold of, shake between her still sweat dampened palms. Trixie does so, bites down on her lower lip at the feeling of the woman’s right, secure hold.

“I’m _Katya_ , by the way, that seems important”. She giggles to herself.

Katya. Trixie mumbles it to herself, then relays her own name back to Katya aloud, her voice shaky as she loops her tongue around _Trixie Trixie Trixie_ , _I’m Trixie._ Katya nods her head, drops her hand slowly from Trixie’s once Trixie’s regained her composure, has straightened her posture from where it’s slumped in upon itself.

They remain in close proximity, Katya stood on the edge of her lawn and Trixie scuffing her flip flops along the side walk. Katya has an inch of height on Trixie with her platform sneakers, and the added surface of the grass that’s thick under the rubber soles of her shoes. Trixie glances up at her, nods to the temporarily forgotten mower that’s still sat on Katya’s gravelled driveway.

“Won’t the neighbours hate the noise of that thing at this time?”. She questions.

“I mean, for sure, but I ‘gotta make it look presentable for the yard sales happening tomorrow, the whole damn streets getting involved so, I guess they’ll live?”. Katya snorts.

“Oh!-“. Trixie’s interest is peaked.

“-A yard sale! What’re you selling?”. Her eyes are lit with curiosity.

Katya shrugs - it’s an attempt to be vague and mysterious that Trixie buys with every cent that she owns - and tugs a hair tie off of her wrist, uses the worn out elastic to scrape her hair off of her face. The bangs remain in place, stuck to her forehead with sweat, but Trixie’s eyes gravitate to her ears, small and delicate, adorned with numerous fine hoops on each of them, left and right.

Trixie wants to press her fingertips to them, needs to feel the frigid metal beneath her tongue and Katya’s breath against her neck; she notes that she partly already can, with Katya standing so intentionally close, exhaling her cigarette and mint gum scented breath directly into Trixie’s face. 

“Cookies, cupcakes, maybe some mini pizzas, and brownies!”. Her voice is chirpy, excitable.

“Brownies as in _edibles_?”. Trixie’s eyes widen noticeably, a hope for a glimmer of normality.

“I _wish_ ”. Katya chuckles.

She brushes her bangs away from her forehead so that they stick up, unrestrained, tilts her head backwards in a laugh that Trixie wants to bottle, drink up hearty gulps. She pats the beads of sweat off of her brow with the back of her hand, wipes it into the loose fabric of her skirt. The sight is alluring - Trixie’s not above appreciating all of the attributes of a working woman - and she allows her legs to carry her two steps forward, up onto the lawn so that she reclaims the inch of height that Katya had once had on her.

“I bet the folks around here would kill you, huh?”. Trixie muses.

“I don’t think so, but then again, I did get a caution letter from the middle aged couple next door once, for _using profanities in a communal space_. I was in my own backyard!”. Katya rages jokingly.

“No way-”. Trixie’s jaw drops. “-No fucking way”.

She shouldn’t be surprised; she’s able to recall Joellen telling her about the couple that used to live two doors down from her, who were pressured to move out of town when one of their college reunion gatherings got too rowdy. It’s stupid, Trixie knows that it is, is aware that to anybody without insight it would seem petty, juvenile. She guesses it is, and rolls her eyes for Katya, for every individual who presents as a daffodil in a field of sunflowers.

“Trust me, I don’t know how I’ve survived”. Katya dramatises.

Trixie giggles airily, pushes her sunglasses off of her face and back into her hair - she’s able to see Katya’s eyes without the pink tinted filter for the first time - and itches at the tip of her nose. She knows that her oily skin must be glinting in the low light, the streets lamps above them flickering to life as the sun descends beyond the horizon, but Katya’s there, talking to her instead of mowing her lawn like she’d set out too, and Trixie’s careless.

“Do you live alone?”. Trixie pries.

“Nope! I have a roommate, _Brian_ , he’ll be here tomorrow too. You should come along? Maybe?”. Katya looks hopeful.

Trixie’s uncertain.

“I don’t know, I don’t know what my sisters doing with the kids tomorrow and-“. Her words get cut off.

“Bring them! I’ll save them some stuff”. Katya’s convincing.

She’s beaming up at Trixie with all of her whiter than white teeth, grains of her nude lipstick transferring on the front of them. Trixie wants said teeth against her own, on her skin and everywhere, she wants Katya everywhere, wants to be everywhere that Katya is, in her soft touches that she’s begun caressing Trixie’s arms with. Katya raises her eyebrows - it’s a challenge, Trixie’s going to rise to it - and awaits Trixie’s response that doesn’t amount to what she thought it would have. 

“You’d do that?”. Trixie’s face relaxes.

“Anything for a bonafide New Yorker in a time of need”. Katya jokes, succeeds in easing Trixie’s concerns further.

Nodding her head, Trixie’s smile grows. It stretches from cheek to cheek until her expression mirrors that of Katya, elated and knowing. She shuffles her weight from one foot to the other, takes a singular step closer to Katya until she’s able to see her clearly. The sky above them is all but black, a dark navy that makes Katya’s skin appear grey, a charcoal sketch, and Trixie lifts her fingers to tap at it, an eraser upon her cheek.

“Maybe you could even help me wrap up at the end of the day? I could make those edibles, _y’know_ , just for us?-”. Katya offers.

Trixie knows that she’s driving a hard bargain, though swears that Katya doesn’t have to. Trixie’s going to agree no matter what Katya suggests that they do, be it get high with her roommate and laugh until the patterns in the carpet inside come to life or fuck like Trixie hopes that they’re going to; Katya’s grip on her wrist tells her that they will.

“-It’s normally just Brian and I gettin’ wild around here, it’d be great to have another face”. Katya adds as an afterthought, her eyes filled with mischief.

Trixie peers over Katya’s shoulder once more, chuckles to herself at the knowledge that Katya’s completely abandoned the task at hand to talk to her, has resigned her self to the inevitable complaints from the neighbours about the noise of the mower purely to entertain a stranger, to entertain Trixie because she can and wants to.

“Yeah, you can sign me up”. Trixie seals their agreement.

Katya mumbles _awesome_ , continues to sway Trixie’s arms back and forth until Trixie whimpers out her name - Katya - tells her to stop. It’s not what she wants, is far from it, but her subconscious is already kicking at her internally, telling her that if she doesn’t head back soon then she’ll end up disturbing Joellen and her husband, the three girls that have bound to be asleep for hours by the time she arrives back; she estimates nine thirty.

“I’ll see you, though?”. Katya checks as Trixie turns to leave.

Trixie nods with a wink that Katya doesn’t catch in the low light.

“You’ll see me”.

*****

Breakfast with the entirety of Joellen’s family the next morning goes smoother than Trixie had thought it would, until she speaks up.

Her voice disturbs the peaceful silence that had settled, pierces through the sound of the birds outside chirping and tweeting, flying from one end of their modest backyard to the next. Trixie can hear them clearly from where Joellen’s chosen to leave the patio doors ajar - it’s in the eighties outside though it’s barely nine o’clock in the morning - and chooses to tune in to the ramblings of Daisy instead.

She’s talking about school, how many crayons she needs in her pencil before she heads back in the fall, and what colour said pencil case needs to be. She chooses pink, and Trixie’s never been more proud of her, offers her a high five with the promise of buying her whatever pink pencil case she desires, adorned which as much glitter as she sees fit.

Joellen simply nods along, doesn’t look up until Trixie clears her throat.

“I went for a walk last night”. Trixie mutters.

She pushes remnants of scrambled eggs around her plate with the prongs of her fork. Joellen frowns, Trixie watches her try to work out when, feels her gears grinding and the cogs turning in her mind. It makes her seconds, but then she gets there, breathes out an oh which means she’s clicked, Trixie knows. She’d left the key slightly off centre on the dresser in the hallway when she’d returned, as well as kicked off her shoes at the bottom of the staircase, had disturbed the ordinarily militantly organised house.

“You did?”. Joellen questions, allows Trixie to nod, take a gulp of her coffee.

“Yeah, I met this woman. _Katya_?”. She checks.

Joellen’s face falls and tenses. Trixie looks on curiously, searches Joellen’s expression for a hint of opinion, affliction or disposition. Her lips are tight, tucked in on themselves, as are here eyebrows, furrowed and knitted together with the thin skin of her forehead. Trixie wants to smooth it out for her - she’s never understood her sisters scowl - but settled for slumping in the uncomfortable dining chair.

“What’s wrong with her?-”. Trixie prods, listens to the voice of her subconscious that answers with nothing, nothing at all.

Dean - Joellen’s husband - cocks his head at Trixie’s brash words, gives a fleeting warning glance to Joellen. She swallows hard, twists in her chair, the wood squeaking and creaking beneath her, before she plants both hands flat on the table. Trixie pushes her mostly empty plate away at the sight, accepts that they’re about to embark on a conversation that she knows she’s under prepared for, and takes a sobering breath.

“-She invited us all over to get some cookies or whatever from her yard sale today. The whole street‘s taking part”. Trixie points out.

Joellen huffs, her lips still pursed. She shares a look with Dean, and then the three girls who are none the wiser as Trixie grows impatient. Trixie presses her with a hard leer, places her empty mug down onto the coaster-less table with a clack that makes a statement. Trixie’s tired of their faux pretentiousness.

“Trixie, I don’t know. Would you really trust her around kids?-“. Joellen queries, holds up a single finger so signify that she’s yet to finish.

“-She’s just, a little _strange_ ”. Her words are whispered confessions.

Trixie doesn’t believe her, naturally, knows that the strange ones are the ones that conform, insist that others are weird for breaking the grain that they should align themselves within. Joellen and Trixie look alike, they have similar faces, brown eyes and full lips, but she knows that’s where the similarities end. Joellen is as straight as an arrow in all aspects of her life, though Trixie has known since she was a teenager that she isn’t, and doesn’t doubt that Katya has strayed off of the path that had been laid for her as a child, too.

The knowledge warms her, comforts her, and she’s sitting up in her chair moments later, spine no longer crumpled and slumped.

“What do you mean?”. Trixie bites.

“I _mean_ -“. Joellen tuts.

“-She lives alone, for Christ sake. She’s in her thirties and I don’t think she’s ever been married or had children!”. She finishes.

She’s outraged, unwilling to understand the concepts that Trixie’s proposing with idle words and conflicting opinions; motherhood and marriage doesn’t complete a woman, isn’t a necessity to validating her existence as an individual human being. Joellen believes otherwise, trusts in the passages of her bible that Trixie knows she’s never read in its entirety - their parents had never raised them to do so - and rolls her eyes for what she’s counted as at least the fifth time since she’d rolled out of bed, showered and joined the others for breakfast.

“She doesn’t live alone, she has a roommate-“. Trixie corrects Joellen’s assumptions.

“-Also, I live alone, what’s so wrong with that?”. Trixie emphasises.

Joellen remains quiet.

“Listen, I’m sure we can all drop by, but if you want to stay longer then that’s on you. I have gardening to do and need to take Rose to ballet practise first”.

*****

It’s a little past noon when Trixie begins walking towards the yard sale on Katya’s street, Joellen and the three girls in tow.

Joellen’s dressed the girls in matching co-ords, similar to the ones from the previous day. Rose’s are red, Daisy’s are blue and Lilly’s are yellow, all primary colours that reflect their youth, their age that Trixie can’t recall being. Joellen herself is clothed modesty, three quarter length khakis and a high neck tank top; it’s a definitive contrast to Trixie’s hip hugging mini skirt and silky mesh camisole.

The humidity is still rampant, the thermostat that Joellen keeps in her kitchen having informed her that it had reached the high eighties before the clock hit eleven. Trixie doesn’t understand how people are coping, she wants to strip to her underwear, needs to bathe in a bath of ice naked, allow her skin to freeze, cool from its sweaty state.

There are men wearing jeans and button ups, women wearing long sleeve shirts and even longer skirts that drag across the cobbled sidewalks. Trixie doesn’t envy them, or the children that she’s able to spot wreaking havoc behind the scenes of their parents yard sales, complaining about certain items being sold and the lack of air conditioning outside.

Trixie doesn’t blame them. She feels like doing the same, whining to the nearest person about the heat that she can feel coursing through the earth, scorching the soles of her feet even through the foam of her flip flops. She curses herself momentarily for not packing more sufficient footwear, contemplates kicking them off entirely and stuffing them into her purse, until her eyes travel to the end of the road, and Katya’s yard comes into view.

It looks bigger, wider and greener than it had in the timid light of the night before, and she finds her eyes being drawn to the red of the rose bush that she had neglected to observe on her first and only visit; the buds match the tank top that Katya appears to be wearing and Rose’s co-ord outfit.

The sight is one that warms her even further, all across her body, as does the vision of Katya herself, each arm supporting a tray of baked goods at knee height whilst a group of children that Trixie deems to be no more than kindergarten age pick at the creations that yank their attention.

Some select the cookies and others gravitate towards the cupcakes, leaving the mini pizzas for the mothers and fathers that crowd in after them. Trixie observes the scenario unfolding in front of her - Katya rises back to full height, takes the dollar bills being offered to her, stuffs them into the pockets of her low rise shorts - with Joellen at her side and the girls pointing excitedly towards the display.

Trixie shares their enthusiasm.

She’s stood directly in front of the collapsible table that Katya has set up, one that has obviously been used for home decor before, by the time that Katya’s counted out each note. Trixie watches her lithe hand jot down the number five on a notepad, and feels her chest swell with unsolicited pride when Katya grins to herself, lifts her head to greet Trixie, Joellen and the girls with an attitude that’s familial, inclusive.

“You guys came!”. Katya beams.

The sun is lit around her head, creating a halo of light that Trixie wants to capture, place on top of her own scalp. She looks ethereal, to Trixie, her lips sparkling with a pink glitter gloss that Trixie thinks she owns, somewhere back home in New York. Her eyeshadow has been toned down, too, is less harsh than the aqua blues that had been flushed in tsunamis across her eyelids. 

They’re dusted with a soft lilac instead; it doesn’t match the remainder of her attire but Trixie appreciates the effort, the commitment that Katya’s seemingly allotted to ensure that she provides the neighbours, the skeptics, with her best attributes.

Trixie thinks she’s pulled it off.

The mothers converse with her like she’s one of them - Trixie’s unable to get a word in in any direction for the duration that Katya’s rambling to them for - and the fathers nod at her in approval, mumble gruff _thank you’s_ when she hands them the largest of the cupcakes.

“I was promised brownies and a good time, of _course_ I came”. Trixie says it like it should have been a given.

Katya snorts inelegantly, signals towards the open front door to her home as she hands out cookies to Rose, Daisy and Lilly, offers one to Joellen who politely declines. Trixie scoffs - she doesn’t know what she had expected - and grants Joellen a meagre _ok_ when she tells Trixie that she’ll be up the street with the _Johnson’s_. Katya nods too, bids them a good day before they turn to leave, the girls sporting grateful grins.

“I’m sorry about them-”. Trixie hurries, only for Katya to cut her off with a dismissive wave.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I get it a lot-“. She laughs.

haphazardly rearranging the display of cupcakes and cookies along with the few remaining mini pizzas on the table, Katya looks up at Trixie from beneath her eyelashes; they’re blonde but coated in thick black mascara that’s transferring onto her under eyes, creasing in the fine lines that Trixie’s able to see more clearly in the daylight.

“-But if you’re planing on sticking around, you might ‘wanna go and see Brian. He’s in the kitchen, walk straight through the house and you’ll get to it. He has those brownies I promised!”. Katya drops her voice.

Trixie nods her head in understanding, flicks her hair behind her shoulder as she smirks, begins rounding the table to the pathway that leads up to Katya’s front door. Katya observes her as she walks, her calves flexing and thighs bouncing, jiggling, soaking up the sun that leaves them tanned, bronzed. Trixie looks back at her over her shoulder, points towards the queue that’s beginning to grow, fidgeting children and irrefutably exhausted parents.

Katya emulates Trixie’s movements, flicks her own hair behind her shoulder. Trixie’s able to pin point the handful of grey hairs that are growing in at her roots from the angle that she’s stood, on the second step heading up to said front door. They suit her - Trixie wonders briefly what Katya’s going to look like ten years from now, forty something, more mature, though laughs it off - as do her arching brows, strong and decipherable. 

Trixie regards her for a second longer, takes in her muscles legs and the sweat patches on her tank top, before she’s stepping over the threshold of Katya’s home, into the long hallway. She walks down it with ease, stops halfway to ogle at a photo of Katya and who she assumes is Brian, a bald man with crooked teeth and questionable fashion sense; he’s wearing orange, Trixie hates it.

She’s proven right when she steps foot into the kitchen, comes face to face with the man that has to read at least six foot, she thinks, towering over a box of brownies that he’s laid out meticulously, all individually wrapped in kitchen paper. His back is hunched over, and he groans to himself when he fixes his posture, takes notice of Trixie who’s still stood awkwardly, unsure in the archway of the door.

He’s dressed not entirely dissimilar to what Trixie had pictured, a pair of denim cuffed shorts that rival the length of her mini skirt, along with a Hawaiian shirt. It’s the stuff that Trixie swears nightmares are made of, but they match him, seemingly, and the giant grin that he’s sporting, his pink tinted lip balm matching the coral of his shirt.

Yellow and mint flowers compliment the base colour. Trixie doesn’t think it’s entirely awful, is able to look past the brownie batter that he’s obviously spilt on it when she regards him if she tries hard enough, and allows a breathy laugh to spill from between her lips when he swats a hand across his left ear.

His ears are big, bigger than average - Trixie finds herself unable to contemplate why she picks up on it, of all things - and deems the sight an endearing one when he laughs too, a screeching bellow that makes Trixie’s shoulders jump. His hands flail briefly, come down to whack at his knees, all hairy and ladened with collections of bruises. Trixie watches him dumbly, only begins stepping further into the quaint kitchen when he beckons her forwards with a crook of his fingers and a reassuring simper.

“Trixie pixie!”. Brian greets, draws a cackle from Trixie.

“Katya told you I’d be comin’?”. She guesses.

Brian hums affirmatively, lifts the plastic container filled with brownies in order to offer them to Trixie. Trixie mumbles her thanks, selects the largest one from the top right corner and begins unwrapping it instantly. Brian whistles lowly at Trixie’s actions, takes one out for himself before he sets the box back down. He places it next to a can of beer that he already has cracked open, three empty ones crushed into disks discarded on the countertop nearby.

“She told me to expect a New York blonde”. His answer is predictable.

“A _New York blonde_?”. She checks.

“That’s what I was told-“. Brian swoops his gaze down the length of Trixie’s body.

“-And you definitely live up to it. God, what the hell are you doing in this fuckin’ place?”. Brian bites into his brownie.

Propping her hip against the kitchen counter, Trixie shrugs her shoulders. She doesn’t know - she’s visiting her sister, her nieces - but she doesn’t know, and settles for tossing the brownie wrapper into the bin that’s an arms length away, bites down on the softness of the brownie with Brian’s eyes still on her. He furrows his eyebrows when Trixie doesn’t respond verbally, merely groans at the flavour of the brownie; chocolaty and rich on her tongue.

“I’m visiting my sister and her family-“. Trixie confirms.

“-But I didn’t expect it to be like-”.

“A suburban soccer moms wet dream?”. Brian interrupts.

“ _Exactly_ ”.

Laughter erupts from the both of them, and Trixie’s fighting hard to swallow what’s left of the bite of the brownie in her mouth, coughs and splutters around it whilst Brian throws his head back in a roaring chuckle. Trixie presses her hands to her face, feels the temperature rising rising rising, her cheeks flushed fuchsia. It takes minutes for her to stop giggling sporadically, quell the burning in her cheeks, and by the time that she does Brian’s finished his brownie, is reaching to the tub for another; Trixie thinks he has good ideas.

“It’s not so bad here”. Brian tries. 

“I know, I’m being dramatic, it’s just-“. Trixie searches the dictionary of her mind for the words that she needs most.

“-Not what I prepared myself for”. She admits.

Trixie finishes off the remainder of her first brownie, though refrains from reaching for another - she hasn’t eaten since breakfast, decides to wait for the effects of the first to kick in - and follows Brian who’s begun walking, out of the kitchen and to the front yard. He sets down to folding chairs for himself and Trixie, far enough away from the serving table so that they remain unbothered, yet close enough so that they’re able to converse with Katya.

A wave of relief hits Trixie when she realises that he _knows_.

“I get it. Culture shock?”. Brian soothes.

“You could say that”. Trixie relaxes into the mesh of the chair.

Brian does the same, allows his body to absorb the sun and radiate the energy that Trixie’s been missing - with the exception of Katya - since she’d arrived a day prior. He rambles eloquently to Trixie about the ins-and-outs of the neighbourhood, informs Trixie of candid affairs that he shouldn’t know about but does, between two churchgoers and their best friends, a man engaged to his long term girlfriend and his coworker from out of town.

He tells her about Katya, too, when Katya is engulfed by the responsibility to tending to her section of the communal yard sale. Trixie learns of when Brian and Katya first met in college, in their senior year, had bonded over Katya’s refusal to abide by the no smoking rules and Brian’s two year long rivalry with the cleaner of the cafeteria.

Trixie’s able to picture their encounters perfectly, begins to visualise them when the effects of the brownies kick in, leave her with the ability to feel Katya’s skin, their lips pressing together despite being two or three feet away from her. Brian is more than aware of their silent communication, giggles despite ensuring that he stays silent when Katya turns to face them whenever the queue has vanished.

She compliments Trixie, her legs and her flowing, cascading hair. She tells Trixie that she’s glad she’s here, in all of her sun kissed bonafide New Yorker glory, spending her mini-vacation with two outcasts of the suburban fragility, the pretentious obnoxiousness of it all.

Trixie’s glad, too, and gleefully accepts a second brownie when Brian offers it to her, shares it with Katya when the afternoon rush disappears, Katya manoeuvring to sit on Trixie’s lap; the street around them is desolate with the exception of Tim at the end of the road packing away his last unsought items.

She looses herself in the fabric of Katya’s denim shorts against the skin of her thighs, the cotton of her tank top that’s damp beneath her fingertips when she runs them across Katya’s spine, feels Katya tensing in her lap. She keeps her arms looped loosely around Katya’s waist, pulls her closer in order to pepper kisses to her tanned, freckled shoulders, and licks her lips when her nose is flooded by the scent of Katya’s perfume, all sweet and floral. Possibly hibiscus. 

Katya allows her to do so, though restrains herself from grinding against the swell of Trixie’s stomach; she knows Trixie can feel her, hard and worked up from the day, because of Trixie and her soft touches, her mere presence that she hasn’t been able to shake.

“Bri, are you still staying at Joshua’s tonight?”. Katya questions, pulls herself off of Trixie’s lap in order to begin folding away the table that had been used.

She’s flustered, Trixie and Brian alike can tell that she is. She fumbles with the hinges, scrunches up the table cloth that had been covering aforementioned table haphazardly, throws it to the ground. She doesn’t care for it and neither does Trixie, who’s standing to attention, fixing Katya with a glance that screams be patient, even though it hurts, whilst she collapses the table effortlessly.

“Just tell me to get out so you can fuck”. Brian deadpans.

Trixie would blush, she thinks, if all of the blood in her body hadn’t already travelled south, taken up residence in her core that’s pulsing pulsing pulsing, begging to be touched, to be filled by Katya. She hums along instead, tells Brian all he needs to know before he’s making himself scarce, retrieving his over night bag from the hallway and hoping into the drivers seat of his five year old _Honda_.

He drives away with a honk of his car horn, leaves Katya unhinged and frustrated but Trixie even more so, her nipples hardening beneath her camisole, pressing through the silk material. Katya eyes them with drool on her lips, her jaw slack and gaping. Trixie wants to close it for her, but then Katya’s telling her to take the chairs into the hallway, is picking up the table with her built arms, bypassing Trixie and locking the front door behind them.

She turns to Trixie with wide eyes, her pupils blown and dilated. The sight draws a deep groan from Trixie; she’s already scraping her long hair back into an elastic, crowding Katya against the wall, below the picture of Brian and Katya that she had spent too long scrutinising, admiring.

Katya’s hands are on her, touching her hips through her mini skirt and slipping her fingertips beneath the hem of Trixie’s camisole. She digs her short nails, still painted with chipped nail varnish, into the soft rolls of Trixie’s stomach, drags them across the small of her back. They leave scratches, red and enticing, and Trixie wants _more more more_ , Katya hasn’t so much as connected their lips yet.

Trixie cants her hips forward, and then Katya’s flipping them, pushing Trixie into the wall with the grip that she has on her waist, her shoulders and her chest. Trixie keens, drops her hips to Katya’s ass that’s firm, heavy in her hands, covered in sweat dampened denim that she wants on the floor, away from Katya’s body. She tugs Katya closer, further in, closer, ruts up into the thickness of Katya’s dick that she can both see and feel through said denim.

Slipping a free hand between their bodies, Trixie grasps at it gently. Katya whimpers hotly into the air between them, her breath that smells of cookies, cigarettes and mint knocking Trixie’s senses, rendering her incapable of forming a coherent thought. She squeezes at Katya’s growing bulge once more, allows Katya to lean the majority of her weight against her and the wall that Trixie wishes would cave in beneath them, cause Katya to fall on top of her, crush her bones in pleasure.

Katya sighs once, and then her lips are on Trixie’s.

Trixie kisses back with reverence, licks into Katya’s mouth, over her tongue and across her teeth. She tastes as sweet as she smells, and Trixie wants to feel the rest of her under her tongue, in her mouth. Her fingertips grasp at the zip of Katya’s shorts, and she pulls them down with ease. Katya kicks them to the corner of the floor, corners back in on Trixie who still hasn’t stopped kissing, smudging both of their lipsticks beyond repair.

Katya’s panties are black, lacy and frilly, see through enough that Trixie’s able to make out the outline of her dick. It’s hard, ready needy for Trixie, is poking out of the waistband of the garment that’s left faint red marks on Katya’s hips, lines of floral garlands around the tops of her thighs.

“Did you wear this for me?-“. Trixie pulls away from the kiss.

“-You did, didn’t you? _God_ ”. She mewls.

Yes, Katya confesses, whimpers it over and over again into Trixie’s neck. She places toothy kisses across the vein that she can tell runs from behind Trixie’s ear, down to her chest, under the fabric of her camisole that both Trixie and Katya wish didn’t exist. Trixie reclines her head against the wall, feels it thud. It sends a dull throb coursing through her skull; part of her wants it to hurt more so that she forgets about the tingling in her core.

“It’s not fair-“. Katya breathes, repeats it until Trixie’s fingers thread into the roots of her hair. 

_It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair._

“-‘Wanted you all day”. She finishes.

Trixie nods, she’s wanted Katya all day too, has needed her to make her come since she’d locked eyes with her the night before, sweat dripping down her brow and iced water dribbling from her lips. Trixie wants her mouth, her words, her touches and her dick, and curses the universe for only allowing her fleeting glances all day, menial conversations with Brian that had left her high and dry.

“Couch”. Trixie decides.

She knows from common sense that it can’t be far away - the house isn’t huge, the kitchen is a short walk to the right - and is proven correct when Katya nods her head, tugs Trixie by the hand into the room that she’d past on trek into the house, one that’s painted a dark mustard, packed to the brim with accessories of varying colours.

There are green suede couches and red Tiffany style lampshades, rows of book shelves stacked with books on all aspects of academia and a cow print rug in the centre of the room that Trixie assumes is faux. It compliments the mismatched aesthetic of the room, and Trixie knows that she’d spare a breath to comment on it if it wasn’t for already being short of air, inhaling to steady her uneven chest.

 

Katya pulls her down onto the couch, spreads Trixie’s thighs so that Trixie’s able to straddle her, her skirt bunching up around her waist. The position means that her panties are exposed, pale pink cotton ones that were the nicest ones she’d brought for her stay at Joellen’s; she hadn’t expected to want to fuck anybody within a ten mile radius of the town.

Grinding down, Trixie feels Katya’s dick and her lacy, pre come slicked underwear press against her sensitive clit. It provides her with momentary relief, until Katya’s shaking her head, ripping Trixie from her secluded thoughts and pulling her down to engulf the moans that flow freely from Trixie’s kiss swollen lips.

It’s _hot hot hot_ \- Trixie can’t remember a causal hookup ever having her as on edge as Katya does - and they’re writhing together, Katya’s hands travelling to lift Trixie’s heavy breasts out of the confines of her camisole.

“Put your mouth on them-“. Trixie commands.

“-Use your teeth”. She adds.

Katya does. She licks across Trixie’s nipples with the flat of her tongue, sucks them into her mouth and laves them in her spit. Her teeth graze against them teasingly, gently, until Trixie whispers harder, is granted what she wants when Katya abides, bites Trixie’s left nipple and pulls away so that the nervy skin stretches. 

It feels good; Trixie can’t describe it, she’s pushing Katya’s tank top up past her small, braless breasts, but it transforms into a feeling that Trixie’s well acquainted with when Katya slips Trixie’s panties aside, pushes two fingers through her sopping folds. Trixie wants them inside of her, needs them to curl up, pull her forwards, but it’s evident in Katya’s actions that she has other ideas.

She pulls them away, sucks them into her mouth, tastes what Trixie has to offer. It’s another sight that has Trixie bucking her hips, pressing down against Katya’s dick that’s so hard Trixie knows it must be painful for her. She reaches down, shuffles Katya’s underwear down so that it springs free, points directly upwards towards her navel piercing.

Katya looks ready.

“Ride me-“. She whimpers.

Her hands plant themselves on Trixie’s hips once more, allow Trixie the opportunity to sit up straight, line Katya’s dick up with her entrance. She drips down onto it, coats her own thighs along with Katya’s, but doesn’t hesitate to add a mouthful of her own spit. Katya groans as it trickles from Trixie’s lips, down to her chin where Trixie gathers it with her hand before spreading it across her clit, her engorged folds.

Everything’s wet, slippery, and there’s no burn when Trixie sits herself down on Katya’s dick, only the friction that she had been praying for. Trixie clenches her muscles experimentally, and lifts herself off to the sight of Katya’s clenched teeth, slams her hips back down with a force that makes them both teary eyed and wanton for more.

Trixie’s going to give it to her.

She rocks her hips in Katya’s lap, presses her clit to Katya’s pubic mound that’s unshaven, covered in a layer of fine, curly blonde hair that Trixie wants to glide her fingertips through. She does so, lifts herself up and off of Katya once more only to glide herself back down with ease.

They establish a rhythm that’s unforgiving - Trixie’s sweating, Katya’s panting, a heat rash covering her from breasts to collarbones - the only sounds in the room being skin slapping against skin along with both of their moans that echo off of the high ceilings.

It’s a symphony of groans, whines, whimpers and mewls, and Trixie knows that she’s got seconds before she’s toppling over the edge, presumably taking Katya with her. She’s got her eyes screwed shut, only snapping them open when Trixie’s thighs begin to clench around her waist, her muscles fluttering as they encompass Katya’s dick. Trixie’s pace begins to falter, but Katya is already looking up at her a blissful grin that tells Trixie I’m going to come -

“Come inside me-”. Trixie whines, begs.

“- _Please please please_ ”.

Her words are the catalysts to Katya’s orgasm, as well as her own. They both come shakily, breaths ragged and moans broken off into staccato beats that Trixie doesn’t catch. Katya spills inside of her, warmth that dribbles out of Trixie’s entrance in spurts and bubbles before she’s able to come down, her walls still draining Katya’s dick for all that they’re able to.

Trixie brings one hand down to her clit, presses down on it and drags Katya’s come up and through her folds once she pulls out, ushers Trixie to take up the small space available on the touch next to her. Trixie does so, basks in the feeling of Katya’s skin on her own, her core still dripping; she knows Katya’s going to have more than one stain on the suede of her couch.

Katya lets her eyes flutter closed once more, and Trixie watches the rays of the setting sun wash over her face, colour her in golds and oranges and hints of the shades of glass in the Tiffany lamps dotted across the room. It’s quiet, serene, and the silence isn’t disturbed until Katya chooses to speak, voices what Trixie had been hoping she would since she’d asked Trixie if she was lost.

“Make sure you leave your number before you head home tomorrow”. Katya exhales.

Trixie nods her head, grins sleepily, and hooks her leg across Katya’s thighs that are still twitching, coated in a fine layer of sweat. She closes her eyes, presses a singular kiss to Katya’s ribcage; she already has the digits scribbled on a scrap of paper for her.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is @ silvervelour! send me asks! come for the porn!


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